There is one other body in here, exposed to the eldritch purple glow of the booby-trap lights. It is making a hoarse screeching sound—almost a teakettle whistle. Its spine is curled over and its jaw gapes wide, and there is smoke pouring out of it, with pale fire flickering in its eye sockets and burning within its rib cage, where it is visible through the clothing that has scorched away. I can see the pallor of bone through the tattered charcoal of his trousers. A bell is ringing, and after a while I realize it’s the fire alarm—our friend must have tripped the smoke detector. The worst thing about it all is that he’s still alive and screaming.

Observe, Orient, Decide, Act.

I touch the press-to-talk mike attached to my helmet. Hope it still works. “Bob here, Howe is down, repeat Howe is down. Unidentified female oppo is down. I’m in the back, lights on, repeat, lights on. Alex is neutral, I can’t see Pete, unidentified oppo is on fire but undead. I need hands here.”

About a quarter of a ton of heavily armed specops soldiers tackle me onto the floor—forming a rugby scrum with me as the ball—then my earpiece crackles: “Awaiting orders, sir!” (Silly me, I guess I got in front of them again.)

“Get a tarp over Alex and get him into the front office, handcuffs and sedation—assume he’s been turned. Find the vicar. That dome: point your guns at it; if it collapses and anything comes out of it, shoot them. Then get off me.”

The weight eases momentarily. “Yes, sir.” I’ve got tinnitus, dammit. (I feel a momentary pang. I can still smell the contents of Steve Howe’s guts all over me. Taste that awful woman’s weird craving for sex with paralyzed vampires. Someone made her that way. Surely?) I shove the thoughts aside for later. “What about—”

I stand up. So does the burning man.

“Freeeeeze,” hisses the burning man. We all freeze. Our wards simultaneously buzz violently, then give up the ghost and start to smoke.

“Misssster Howard.” Bits of carbonized cloth and flesh drip from his bones as he straightens up and turns to face us, like a walking skeleton with pale red worms writhing in the back of his skull. He’s not hissing just because of the flames: there’s something wrong with his dentition. “We meet again.”

“Name, rank, and number?” I ask.

“Don’t you recognize me, what-what?” Skeletal jaws grin, and now I realize I’m hearing his voice inside my head: he doesn’t have lungs or larynx with which to laugh. “I really must thank you. I do appreciate a warm welcome: it affirms my sense of self-worth.”